


for a long and happy life

by deadlybride



Series: fic for climate crisis [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s11e11 Into the Mystic, Established Relationship, M/M, Massage, Prostate Milking, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29905128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: When they get home after dealing with the banshee, Sam wants to take care of Dean.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: fic for climate crisis [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173491
Comments: 10
Kudos: 137





	for a long and happy life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scippy/gifts).



> This fic was written for climate relief in Texas. Personalized fics are available on request; see [this post on my tumblr](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629171809812643840/fic-for-fire-relief) for more info.

It's only eleven o'clock when they get back to the bunker after leaving Oak Park. Strange to be home so early, after a hunt, when normally it's eight hours of interstate and bad fast food and pulling up into the garage at three in the morning, and crashing straight into bed without doing much besides pulling off their boots. Sometimes not even that. Eleven o'clock, and even with a sleepless night there's still stuff to do, at home, and so they do them.

They eat an early lunch, since they missed both breakfast and the dinner before it. The explosion Castiel left in the archive room takes some time to deal with. Sam goes for a run, at four o'clock, and takes the long route around the farms, past the cow pond, until his muscles are aching and some of the strange nervous energy of the night is burned away. When he gets back Dean's doing laundry and so he adds his running gear to the pile and takes a shower, soaking under the water pressure for a long time, and when he comes out Dean's in the kitchen, looking at something in the middle distance, just leaning on the island, still. "Okay?" Sam says, and Dean blinks like he's surprised to see him.

"Thinking about dinner," Dean says, and it's not even six but then the grilled cheese was a while ago, so—Sam mostly stays out of the way, while Dean's cooking, but he cuts up a tomato for the burgers and digs the iceberg out of the fridge where Dean tried to hide it, and the burgers are perfect, of course, because Dean made them, and they sit on the same side of the kitchen table with Sam's laptop in front of them and watch Holy Grail, and Dean says, "Poor rabbit," at the same time he always does, and Sam nudges him and goes, "Dude, it's like—a monster, we would totally hunt that thing," the way he always does, and the thing is that Sam feels—okay. Like, actually fine. He's not going to forget being trapped in the cage with Lucifer or the godawful things he said or the way it feels, all the time, like he's one step behind and failing to catch up—but Dean was right, the hunt helped, and more than that just—not being stuck in his own head, not-sleeping and not-working and not letting Dean help. This day, saving Mildred and going through a routine and now just sitting next to his brother, their shoulders jostling at the table. Dean was right.

They turn off the movie before the cop-out. Dean's shoved their plates to one side and he's rubbing his temple below the place where his skin split, where the banshee almost got him. "Does it hurt?" Sam says, and Dean shrugs a shoulder. So, that's a yes. He's got shadows under his eyes so deep he looks ill. "You want to go clean up? I'll take care of the dishes."

"I cooked," Dean says, "you're damn straight you'll take care of the dishes," but it's weak. Sam rolls his eyes and gets up, and piles the plates in the sink, and when he turns around Dean's still sitting there, his cheek sucked in on one side.

"Dude," says Sam, "go already," and Dean blinks again like he's startled, and goes.

Sam takes his time with the dishes. Dries them, too, puts them away instead of leaving them in the drainer, and then takes the time to clean the cooktop, too, and wipe down the island and the table, and leave it as clean as Dean would, even if he's sure Dean will find something to complain about with Sam's cleaning. It seems to be a hobby. He grabs beers from the fridge and goes down the hall to the shower room, but it's empty, and he stands there frowning for a minute before it clicks.

They don't use the bathing room very often. It's a side-room off the infirmary, weird and solitary, and they took showers all their lives and, Sam would have said, neither of them were really… bath men, unless they've got an injury.

Dean's eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the rim. Sam doesn't try to be quiet, coming in, nor when he sits down on the step, and when he pops the cap on the beer the corner of Dean's mouth lifts, very slightly. "Room service," he says, but doesn't reach for it, so Sam sets it on the step beside him and leans his elbow on the rim of the bath, instead.

The water's hot, enough that steam's visibly rising, and there's some weird Letters work in here so it never goes cold. Dean's skin is sheened with sweat and his hair's damp, his stubble and eyebrows and eyelashes all standing out dark. "You want me to go?" Sam says. He thinks he knows the answer but this is odd enough for Dean that he should check. "I can bring you a magazine or something. Bath salts."

"Not planning to eat face," Dean says, and Sam snorts. He slits one eye open and Sam raises his eyebrows, questioning. "Nah. Just—kinda sore, all over. Turns out it’s hard on the meatsuit when a crazy monster tries to make you bash your own brains out."

"I can see how that would suck," Sam says, serious, and Dean nods, serious too, until he closes his eye again and his mouth's soft, nearly a smile. Not quite a smile. The bandage on his forehead is a little damp but holding. The bruise is spreading out, below it, obvious and dark, and Sam… god. That feeling, last night. That moment where Sam was going to lose him.

There's old soap, in the cabinet. Smells like honey when Sam picks it up. He lays a towel down for his knees and rolls his sleeves up, and Dean's eyes slit open again when Sam dips the washcloth into the water. "Dude," he says, but it's not much of a protest.

"Relax," Sam says. "Pretend I'm—I don't know. A hot nurse or something."

Dean's legs shift, under the water. The bath is deep enough that his knees only stick out an inch. "Yeah, you're Darryl Hannah," he says, skeptical, but Sam's lathered up the washcloth by then and Dean's not actually saying no, so—he starts with the knee closer to him, slicking the cloth down Dean's shin and back up, and the water instantly clouds with the soap, honey rising with the steam, and Dean—doesn't object further, so Sam keeps going.

They did this exactly once before. A trip to Vegas—Dean getting the jacuzzi room at the dingy motel, waggling his eyebrows like a lunatic when he revealed the surprise—and they'd both fit in that bath, even if they splashed enough bubbly water over the side that Dean almost brained himself getting out once they were finally done—and it was fun, ridiculous, something they never would've done if Sam hadn't been so recently reunited with his soul and Dean's relief hadn't been spilling off of him in fizzy champagne waves.

Sam can't fit into this one at the same time but he doesn't want to try. This isn't even fun, really. Dean's eyes are half-lidded, watching him, and Sam just goes methodically around his body: soaping his legs, and then his arms, taking his lax hand under the water and pushing the slick soapy cloth over his broad palm. Dean's fingers curl against his. Up over his shoulder, his chest—over the tattoo, and then over his nipples under the water, soft. Sam taps a finger at the knob of Dean's spine and Dean leans forward as directed, so Sam can slide the cloth over his back, down the columns of thick muscle there. He swirls a circle at the lowest part of his back, deep enough that the edge of his sleeve gets soaked, and he's leaning over Dean's shoulder and Dean's breathing slow, close enough that Sam can hear it. He dips his head and presses his lips to the damp curve where Dean's shoulder meets his neck. He can't believe Dean's letting him do this, but then—something's been different, between them, since the mark came off Dean's arm. Since Dean killed Death rather than—what could have happened.

A touch to Dean's chest and he settles back. Sam gets the soap again, re-lathers the cloth, and slides slickly over Dean's belly, down low across his hips. Over the trimmed-close hair, over his dick. Dean takes a deeper breath and spreads his legs, and Sam squeezes his dick very lightly through the cloth and then goes over his balls, gentle, and lower to his taint, and then Dean scoots down a few inches, his back curving and the water lapping the sides of the tub, so Sam can push the cloth over his asshole, digging just a little, feeling it.

"Christ," Dean says, quietly. Sam lets the cloth go and uses his fingers instead, scrubbing over the tight skin. He watches Dean's face. How his mouth parts, his eyes focused somewhere Sam can't see. He flattens his palm and presses Dean's sack up against the root of his dick, massaging two fingers into the thick tight stretch of muscle there, and Dean's dick is fattening up, slow, even with Sam hardly doing anything.

"Good?" Sam says.

"Don't be a dick," Dean says, and Sam smiles without expecting to, and slides his hand up Dean's shoulder into the damp short buzz of his hair. Dean lets the weight of his skull tip into Sam's palm and Sam drags his thumb up the underside of his dick, slow, and Dean licks his lower lip, drags his teeth over it after. "Sam," he says.

"Come on," says Sam. He takes out the plug and stands up, and Dean gets up slowly, cautious, his arms braced on the sides. Sam wraps the towel around him but the side-long look of _really?_ he gets means that maybe it's a little far to dry him off like a kid—he pulls off his wet flannel shirt, instead, and puts the soap back in its dish in the cupboard, and he's about to close the cupboard door when he sees the little bottle of oil.

Dean steps out of the tub and leaves a puddle on the step. "I smell like candy," he says. Vaguely complaining but it's obviously just to say something. Sam pockets the bottle and comes over while Dean's tying the towel around his waist and kisses him, with no warning, and Dean takes in a surprised breath but puts damp fingers to Sam's stomach, lets it happen.

On the step he's an inch taller than Sam and it's nice, to have to lean up a little, for once. He's right, too. His skin's warm and he smells sweet, the honey soap strong. Complex, not sugary. Appropriate, Sam thinks, for his brother, and he slides his hand up Dean's ribs and squeezes, says, "Come on," again, and Dean blinks at him but follows him out of the infirmary, down the hall.

Dean's room, the lamps on so it's full of golden light, the bed made and the two pillows fluffed at the head—and he pulls Dean in as soon as they're inside and kisses him again, easy, not trying to make it urgent. Dean sighs against him and doesn't object when Sam pulls the towel away, tosses it over onto the loveseat. He heels out of his boots, kicks them to the side, and tugs Dean down to sit on the bed, his hand around the back of Dean's neck, squeezing. Dean groans. "Good?" Sam says, again, and Dean elbows him in the ribs, so Sam says, "Oof," obliging. "Lay down," he says, then, and Dean squints at him sidelong but does, and obeys when Sam urges him over onto his stomach.

"Not wasting much time with the preliminaries," Dean says, folding his arms under the pillow, but Sam shakes his head. He takes the bottle out of his pocket and kicks out of his jeans, and when he climbs onto the bed he's still got his t-shirt on, his boxer-briefs. Dean frowns at him, looking back over his shoulder, and Sam shakes his head again, pouring a drizzle of oil into his hand. It smears like gold over the thick muscles in Dean's back and he hisses in a breath and then groans again. Good or painful, Sam can't actually tell. "You're joking," Dean says, but sort of thin. Wants to object but doesn't want it to stop. "I'm a way cheaper date than this, dude."

"Like I don't know that," Sam says, and swings his knee over Dean's hip, settling in. He puts his weight behind the next push and Dean makes a semi-orgasmic sound. "See? Shut up and enjoy it."

"You're creating a monster," Dean says, "I'm going to expect this every night, now," but he shuts up, after that, and Sam smiles where Dean can't see.

He hasn't done this often. Amelia liked it but she liked a light touch, almost more Sam rubbing her skin than actually digging into the muscle. He's helped Dean a few times, when his shoulder was tight or some muscle had been stretched sore, and Dean likes it hard so Sam gives it to him hard. He's methodical, moving up Dean's back. Digging in under the shoulderblade, dragging up to his neck. He works there for a while, slow drags of his oiled thumbs, up into Dean's hairline, shaping the back of the skull, and Dean's breathing has gone slow, drugged, his face relaxed and easy where it's peeking out of the pillow. The oil smells a little like honey, too, and soft sage—some ritual additive, Sam guesses—but it's slick and warm with Dean's skin and it's making Sam want…

He pulls Dean's arms out from under the pillow, gently. Works down the triceps and the smooth line of his forearms. His palms, the thick strong mount of his thumbs. Sam switches to his legs, then, lifting up and inching his way down the bed on his knees, working deep circles into Dean's thighs. His calves, so lightly dusted with hair he looks sometimes like he shaves. His ankles, and the clean soles of his feet, completely uncalloused from how he's never, ever barefoot. Sam drags his thumb down into the arch, firm, and watches Dean's toes spread. He smiles and lets his fingernail drag back up, very lightly, and the toes immediately curl. "Don't you dare," Dean mumbles, slurring almost into his pillow, and Sam laughs and apologizes by closing his hand warmly over the spot.

More oil. He skims back up Dean's thighs, rolls gentle pressure into his hips. Slides over, to the small of his back, gently circling into the narrowing dip. Dean's hips shift against the bed. Sam spreads his hands wide over his ass, pressing down, watching the side of Dean's face, and he's—relaxed, still, but he's starting to get pink, that way Dean gets pink. His flushed ear. Sam's firm with the thick muscle here, working it hard, and Dean's hips shift again, his thighs trying to spread inside the bracket formed by Sam's knees. Sam could ask, to be a dick about it, but even if it's fun to get Dean bitchy and demanding that's not the goal, here—he slips one thumb into the crack, dragging down, and Dean's ass lifts, just a bare centimeter, almost instinctive.

He sits back. Gets the oil bottle and drizzles a line directly over Dean's ass. With both thumbs he drags it down, into the crack, spreading Dean wide, getting him wet. His asshole's flushed, clean, and Sam rubs it with smooth long strokes, making him slick, shining. Dean's hand reaches for Sam's knee, squeezing, and Sam pulls it off and places it firmly up by Dean's head, their skin slipping together from the oil. Dean bites his lips between his teeth and Sam leans over him, kisses his cheekbone, his jaw. Honey, and sage, and the slight saltiness of his skin under that. He pushes his thumb inside Dean's ass and kisses below his ear, and he's right there for the long breath that sighs out of Dean. The oil's so slick that it feels like gliding into water, and Dean's relaxed enough that he hardly has to apply any pressure. He presses in, again, and again, and pulls his thumb out and replaces it with two fingers, pushing in deep and finding the front wall where he knows it's good, and Dean moans, just faintly, his face turning further into the pillow like he doesn't want Sam to see. Sam presses his lips against the back of Dean's neck, instead, and pushes in three fingers, and starts up a rocking, pulsing rhythm, the thickness of his fingers and the slick of the oil helping him get to exactly what he wants.

He balances on his knees, slides his other hand down Dean's side. He's starting to breathe more heavily. Sam pushes in deep, as far as he can, and finds Dean's balls plush against the blanket with his other hand. Dean's hips lurch, pressing harder into the bed, and Sam kisses his shoulder and rubs his sack, slick, slips his fingers under to cup them heavily, and works inside in a scrubbing unrelenting drag, milking the pleasure out of him. Dean's hand drags up, gripping the blanket, and Sam lifts up, sits up all the way so he can see, and Dean's asshole is rosy shining red, split, and his balls flushed where Sam's cupping them, and Sam pushes his hand further up, under the weight of Dean's hips, and finds a smeared mess—Dean leaking in a steady stream, his balls spilling slow and steady from what Sam's doing to him—and Sam licks his lips and wants—jesus—very badly to get his dick inside, or flip Dean over and get his mouth on Dean's dick, to lick into Dean so deep he flinches and cringes and cries—but more than anything he just wants Dean to come, good and slow and like an unspooling knot—and he wraps his hand around Dean's dick and starts a deep rocking thrust inside and watches Dean's shoulders bunch, his hands flexing into the blanket, his hips pushing into the bed and then back against Sam's hand—and when he does come, it's without an additional sound, without any warning but the crushing clench of his asshole around Sam's fingers, his dick swelling in Sam's hand. He breathes out, shaky, his face pressed up into the pillow. Sam squeezes his dick one last time and pulls his hand out, smeared with Dean's load and all that had milked out of him before. Rubs Dean's ass, sticky, and slides his fingers out slow, pushing them back in on gentle pulses with the rhythm of Dean's flexing muscle. He brushes Dean's prostate again, still swelled and full with how Dean's body is lit up—and Dean flinches, his muscles all twitching—and Sam pulls out and spreads his ass wide and rubs slick-oiled and messy all the way up his back, to his shoulders, and leans over him, and slides a hand under his chest to tip him up out of the pillow and finds his mouth and kisses him deep, slow, knocking his mouth open and tasting inside. No honey, here, or sweetness, other than the taste of him. What Sam's always loved.

His dick's full, pressing against Dean's ass through his boxer briefs. He pushes against him, just to feel it, and Dean reaches down, touches Sam's hip. "Nah," Sam says, "I'm good," and when he lifts up Dean's giving him a sleepy disbelieving look, and Sam smiles at him and says, "Seriously," and squeezes Dean's shoulders one more time, and lifts up, off the bed.

Dean's got a hand-towel next to his sink and Sam wets it with warm water. Dean's a complete mess—oil and jizz everywhere—and Sam's careful, cleaning him off. His back, and the tender split of his ass. He pulls at Dean's hip to turn him over and gets his front, too, the glossy mess all over his belly, the soft-flushed shaft of his dick. His balls. He swipes at the blanket but it's a lost cause—that'll have to get taken care of with a load of laundry, in the morning.

When he tosses the towel back over into the sink, Dean's watching him. Loose on the bed, sleepy. Frowning, just a little. "What's up, Sammy," he says. "What's with the romance novel routine?"

Sam shrugs. He sits by Dean's hip, settles a hand on his ribs. "I just—I've been thinking."

"Never good," Dean says.

"Shut up," Sam says, and Dean's mouth turns up. He drags up one knee, tipping in toward Sam, and Sam squeezes his side, trying to figure out how to articulate it. "When I was—with Lucifer." Dean frowns, immediately, and Sam shakes his head. "It was just—all the times I screwed up. Ran away from my problems and let you down, in the process. I just—don't want it to be like that, ever again."

Dean's hand covers his. "It's not," he says. "Won't be. Because we're both here, right? We're in it. That's all that ever mattered, Sammy."

He says it like he believes it. Sam swallows away a little thickness, in his throat. Dean's eyes are steady, on his face, and even fucked-loose and tired and with that bruise on his temple, the shadows in him—he believes it, and if Dean believes it then—it's true. He leans down, and Dean tips his face up, and the kiss is shallow, just comfort. True, too.

Sam shifts around, lays down. His forehead against Dean's, his arm over Dean's side. For the first time all week he feels like he might actually get a decent night's rest.

"If you think I'm sleeping in the wet spot," Dean murmurs, hand over Sam's heart.

Sam snorts, pulling Dean in close. "I thought all that mattered was that we were together," he says, soft. Dean pinches him and Sam laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/645027747744415744/in-support-of-texas-relief-addictsam-donated) \-- reblogs help more people see the relief campaign, so it's appreciated if you have a tumblr.
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


End file.
